


Some Absent Pornography

by oxymoronassoc



Category: Shame (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxymoronassoc/pseuds/oxymoronassoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel you never asked for and always wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Absent Pornography

She likes to make him mad.

"At least I always say I'm sorry."  
"Actions count, not words."

"I'm sorry."

 

"Some people fuck up all the time.  
Remember that."

 

Sissy doesn't really remember Ireland. 

They emigrated late. Their parents were affluent. They were a wanted commodity. Let's be honest: there was no other expectation. That's not to say they paid either of them any favors. They we too self-involved. They were fucked up. Maybe this was their real legacy.

The last thing they ever did for him was his citizenship. He rode on his mother's coattails. 

Sissy read her Seventeen magazine, practiced her impartial drawl.

In years, they weren't maybe that far apart.

In lifetimes? None and too many.

 

If asked, neither of them could pinpoint when it started. Maybe it was before the move. Certainly it was long before he left and went to college. It was playful at first. Children's games. Maybe it always was that. Maybe it was something else from the start he never understood. 

She always understood.

He's always had this accent, that grew faint and soft except when he was mad.

She likes to make him mad. 

 

They were never casual. No one ever remarked it was weird, least their parents. Maybe they were too busy. Either way, something happened one night with one of those awful twits Sissy dated or maybe it didn't. 

She slid into bed with him, wearing just a tee shirt and panties. Her arms went around him. Her body pressed against his back as she spooned him. She'd done this many times before. He was used to it. His cock couldn't ignore it but his brain could. Still, this time, he tensed against her even as he tried to ignore her.

"Oh Brandon, it was awful," she sighed.

"Was it?" he murmured, half asleep. "Shall I kill him?"

She snorted softly through her nose, buried her face against the nape of his neck. "No. It's so whatever." 

"So you didn't."

"No, dummy."

He exhaled heavily with relief, like a sigh. 

She chuckled softly against his hair, rubbed her face up against the back of his neck. "You always want to believe the worst."

"Because it's true."

Her hand slide over his waist and hugged up against his chest. She was the big spoon to his little. 

They both fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

Retrospect wants you to put some sort of value on it, but there it was.

 

If you must know, because of course you do. That is why you are here, waiting with baited breath. Did it or didn't it? 

It did. 

Once. 

Don't glorify it. 

They don't. 

Or, well.

He certainly doesn't.

 

He lost his virginity in high school. Well, middle if you count oral sex. But he counts the first time he put his dick into a vagina because that is the feeling he keeps trying to recreate. That sweet, hot, sticky warmth. Except it leaves him feeling nothing but clammy and cold in the end, wanting more. But that's neither here not there. That is beside this point. Or maybe it is. 

Either way, it's an itch he can never scratch.

 

Sissy didn't go to college or maybe she did. But it wasn't like how he went to college. 

The prodigal son. He majored in accounting or business or economics or applied math. Something a few shades plus or minus. It didn't matter. His parents, their friends, the connections were there. All he had to do was take them. And he did, as much as he resented it. 

There was no such thing as the self-made stockbroker, let alone the creative artist in that day and age. It was an age of excess, self indulgence. He soon fell in with a group just as depraved--no, more so--than he. The first time he read American Psycho, he felt pity, an affinity for Patrick Bateman. That a hybrid accented Welshman played the character later didn't escape him. He's always liked Easton Ellis, even if the guy is a prick.

This is even more beside the point.

 

This is supposed to be an interesting story, not your older sister's drunken college cliché. This life is no novel.

 

Sissy majors in vocal study. For the life of him, he can't remember if it's an AA art degree or a BA. His parents pay for it happily either way, glad that she has some ambition. He wants to disagree but can't. All Sissy seems to have an affinity for is running through her allowance and whinging. And probably drugs and alcohol, but that's par for the course. 

 

ANYWAY, this is beside the point. Honestly, this whole story is something he'd like to not even make the footnote of his sexual perversions. And yet he can't let it go as he has so many other things. 

 

You do know Sissy isn't her real name, right? Not that it matters. It's just procrastination now. His mind is trying to make excuses for things his body never could.

 

He's twenty-something. He wants to say twenty-three, but that makes it disgusting. She's eight years younger than him. Her voice carries no memory of Ireland. These are things he repeats to himself sometimes late at night when he can't sleep.

She wasn't a virgin. Thank God. Or not. Would he have rather been her first? Been the one who touched her carefully, coaxed her to orgasm, moved carefully within her? Except it never happens so poetically, so he's glad he isn't the first man to disappoint her.

Although, ironically, he is both the only man who ever can and ever can't. It's a hard space to live in, so idolized. 

 

She comes to visit him in the city. They go out and get drunk. They take drugs. He's laughing down at her, wanting to mock her, and she wrinkles her nose and then he just wants to kiss her. He pulls away, grabs her hand. It's time to leave. 

They get a cab. He tells the man the address. She cuddles up next to him, her head on his chest. He lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding in relief. She kisses him then, full on the mouth. He kisses her back. This is an old game. It's one of power, not sex. She puts her tongue in his mouth. He puts his in hers. They kiss, heavy and sloppy while the cabbie tries to pretend he's not watching in the rearview mirror. 

They get out at his apartment. He pays in cash for a good tip. 

"You have Captain Crunch, right?" she asks as she stumbles past him. 

"I'm hungry," she tells him as she leans up against him in the elevator.

He laughs, his face creasing in a sharkish smile that is the only one he knows.

 

In retrospect, maybe that wasn't the time. Maybe it was earlier or later when he said she could sleepover and she came home late. Yeah, that was probably it, his conscience wants to say. She came home and you were asleep and that was it. Except, no, he has always known how it was. 

 

He was watching TV absently, some graphic pornography. She had come home drunk. Maybe she was still in college. Probably. She had transferred to NYU at some point. He could tell she was wasted. She threw her shoes down, her purse, stalked towards him, tripped over the couch.

His hand was still down his trousers. 

"You are so disgusting," she slurred, pushing herself up. The thin strap of her dress drooped down her shoulder and she shoved it violently back upright. 

He removed his hand, placing both his palms against the couch cushions. "Sissy. I wasn't expecting you."

She tipped her head to one side. "You never do." She licked her lips then, smiled. "Oh, Brandon. I think you'd like to know though." She moved in a quick blur, straddling his lap, her arms around his neck.

He'd played this game before though even as she rolled her hips against his, pressed kisses to his face. 

"Sissy," he sighed against her mouth after a heavy kiss. He flicked her gaze to his. She's pouting.

Suddenly it wasn't then, it was now. She's here, not there. She's tiny, a wisp of a person, a wraith that haunts him. Maybe this time...? In his heart though, he knows otherwise. But tell his dick that, tell whatever drives him to find that nirvana he cannot seek.

"What's one time?" she asks, her mouth pressed to his ear. Her hips roll against his dick, already hard. In the background, the woman begins to moan and he can hear the wet thrusts of bodies. He can't help himself as his fingers dig into her hip. She laughs.

"No, go to bed. You're drunk." His words are soft pants against her throat. He suddenly feels a violence well up with in him, an urge to throw her against a wall, to smash her skull in. No, something else says, not your baby sister. Not her. His fingers clench harder to her hips, adjusting her movements.

"I knew you'd come around," she says, her voice quavering just enough for him to know this is a bluff. But it's not enough for him to hold back. 

She presses her mouth to his, kisses him heavy and open mouthed. He tastes her on his lips, allows her inside. Really, she's always been there. 

Later, after she's come from the friction of her jeans and his fingers in her panties, they fuck. Maybe he expects paradise, but after all this time, it's just a cunt. Except his sister's face is there and it isn't some nightmare.

It's his life. But really, it's just par for the course. He falls asleep. She spoons him or he spoons her or they both push each other away. In the morning, he makes her toast and eggs and orange juice and she acts like it's normal for her to parade around in her panties in front of her brother.

 

Later, she tries to goad him to it again. For months and then years later. But he knows there is no nirvana, no peace to this. So he pushes her away or he holds her cruelly, platonically close. Sometimes, to torture them both, he presses his cock, hard and ready, up against her ass, moves his hips just until he's about to come and then rolls over and tries to sleep. 

 

It's nothing less than they both deserve.


End file.
